


Tales From The Courtroom Jail House

by The_Crawling_Chaos



Series: Twin Smiles [5]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Dark, Gen, Imprisonment, Insane Wilbur Soot, Prison, Protective Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27415435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Crawling_Chaos/pseuds/The_Crawling_Chaos
Summary: Wilbur rots in his cell, and can’t keep track of the time.But luckily, he sometimes gets visits from one certain angry and vengeful teenage President to keep him sane. Or, at least, less insane then he already is.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Twin Smiles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965811
Comments: 10
Kudos: 401





	Tales From The Courtroom Jail House

**Author's Note:**

> be warned: this is my most overtly violent fic yet in this series! please keep that in mind as you read! blood and injury abounds!

Wilbur had seen Tommy only a few times since his imprisonment. 

The first time had been directly after his capture on Festival Day. He had barely been in the cell for twenty minutes before Tommy had come barging in. He had been panting heavily, like he had sprinted the entire distance from the Dream SMP center to the courthouse jail. 

“You came to gloat _already?_ I thought you were better than that Tommy.” 

Wilbur sneered at his jailer and crossed his arms petulantly as Tommy drew up to his full height and stared him down. 

“I didn’t come to gloat big man, although that idea isn’t fully out of the question. No, I came to tell you something. Something that you’ll want to know.” 

A moment of silence passed. 

“I’m the president, bitch.” 

That had concluded Wilbur’s first encounter with Tommy.

Weeks passed before he got to see the newly promoted President again. He began to lose track of time, however, so it may have been weeks or months. He didn’t care to know. Units of time were unnecessary in prison. 

But eventually, Tommy came. And he came much more subdued this time. His armor was still on, but it had received a cleaning and servicing. There had also been a notable change in his demeanor. Throughout that next visit, Tommy had slightly altered his speaking patterns; he formulated sentences more coherently and stuttered less. He held himself more confidently and carefully. Wilbur would speculate more on that after the visitation had concluded. 

“Tommy? Why, I didn’t expect you back so soon after our last conversation. Getting lonely?” 

He didn’t say anything for at least a minute or two. It unnerved Wilbur more than he let on at the time. 

“This isn’t a social call, Wil. I’m here because I need clarification.” 

This caught Wilbur’s attention. “Oh? On what?” 

“Tell me. Clear this up for me. Did I ever have any say in what our government did? Was I ever a voice in your head when we founded L’manburg so long ago? Or did you just never factor in my contributions?” 

His face and voice betrayed no emotion or hesitation. It seemed that he had picked up an excellent poker face over the time Wilbur had spent in jail. 

“I want to give you a nice and heartwarming answer, Tommy, but I’m afraid that I’m honor bound to give you the truth.” He took a breath in, and then out. “You were too foolhardy and confrontational to be of any tactical help to me. During the war, I let you command the armies, but only because I was too _lazy_ to do it myself. I didn’t care enough for troop movements and logistics back then, so I let you handle all that. Any decision making you did after that was always unauthorized or unofficial. You never influenced my direct actions, Tommy. I merely maintained the _illusion_ that you did.” 

Wilbur blinked, and Tommy was gone. He could’ve sworn he had heard a distinctive comm crackle as the jail door slammed shut. 

  
  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

  
  


Wilbur’s cell was awful. It was grimy and full of creepy crawlers that never gave him enough desired personal space. He was never offered a change of clothes either, though they had frisked him and emptied his pockets of any weapons or tools he may have smuggled in from the battlefield. Also, the _smell._

After the second visit from Tommy, he languished away in that dark, abominably smelly cell for months and months alone. No one had come to see him, not even his closest ~~friends~~ allies like Techno or Tubbo. His voice withered away from disuse, and became a hoarse whisper that barely resembled a human noise. Much less could be said about his appearance, which hadn’t been tended to or groomed properly in ages. 

He looked like death and famine had come home to roost. 

  
  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

  
  


Wilbur’s eyes were so crusty and sluggish that he barely even registered that the prison doors had opened up. His rotting brain couldn’t process the flurry of new information being shoved at him by the unexpected visitor. 

They wore armor, that was for sure. It glowed and glistened in the low light, and cut an imposing figure from Wilbur’s slumping vantage point. He attempted to look up and see the person’s face, but his eye lashes obscured his vision and muddled their features. But he could make out something unusual on top of their head. He saw something that shouldn’t have been there. 

He saw a crown. Sculpted from netherite and painstakingly crafted to curve wickedly through the air like a beast’s set of claws. 

Finally, the head it sat on sharpened into view. 

The netherite crown belonged to Tommy. 

“What the _fuck_ do you have on your head?” Wilbur slurred his words, unable to give a single flying shit about proper presentation at the current moment. “What is that, a fucking ordamental participation trophy? _Oh look at me, I helped to dethrone a dictator! I’m TommyInnit, I held a crossbow while Dream did all the work at getting my nation back. Give me my equal attention cake!!”_

Wilbur laughed like a hyena. He barked out his displeasure with vigor and made no effort to look his visitor in the eye as he did so. It was all just too funny. 

_“Whatcha gonna do baby, piss and cry? Shit the bed?”_ More animalistic cackling erupted from Wilbur’s destroyed throat. He didn’t have a care in the world. It didn’t matter that Tommy’s face was darkening by the second, and his armor encased fists were clenching. Nothing mattered anymore. 

_“Shut up.”_

This only elicited more demonic laughter from Wilbur. 

_“Fucking pissbaby adjacent! You hang out with Dream now, so you’re just_ his lackey _now like you were mine so long ago! His little piss minion, doing his bidding wherever and whatever his majesty pleases! Mindless Tommy, no brain_ whatsoever!” 

A low growl pierced Wilbur’s insane glee. It persisted until a jangling could be heard over it. He had unlocked the cell door. He had even stepped inside, before closing the door again with a severe slam. 

“I said, _shut up.”_

_“Make me!”_

Tommy’s fist crashed across Wilbur’s face, leaving a bloody mass where his cheek should’ve been. Then he hit him again, with a punch to the gut. That knocked the wind out of Wilbur, and forced him to stop laughing his hyena song. 

That newfound silence only drove Tommy further into the dark churning rage he felt deep in his core. It had been festering for too long now; it was long past time he let it out to play. 

Wilbur cried out in pain and perhaps a little satisfaction as he was beaten and battered by the one person he had known the longest. He tumbled to the ground limply, like a ragdoll would from too much roughhousing. There was no more energy in his malnourished body to fight back; if Tommy wanted to kill him, he’d have ample opportunity. 

But, Tommy didn’t take the golden moment to strike the killing blow. He instead took a step back and examined his bloody work. 

He would never admit it to anyone, but in that moment of pure instinct and emotion, he had felt more powerful than ever. With the blood rushing to his head and hands, his doubts had been thoroughly chased away. The beast inside him, born from the ashes of his boyhood in L’manburg, fed through the betrayals of his friends and family, and encouraged by the heartlessness of his enemies, finally saw a moment to shine. It took its chance and revealed its fathomless depths to the one person it hated the most. And, _holy fuck_ , it felt _so good_ to rend Wilbur Soot into a thousand tiny pieces. 

“Hey Tommy look, blood.” 

Wilbur held out two fingers caked with fresh blood that had been pumping furiously from his nose. 

“I’m proud of you. You made me _feel_ something in god knows how many months. You made me _bleed._ You deserve twenty netherite crowns for that feat alone.” 

Tommy said nothing in return. He merely stared at Wilbur, his eyes a pair of bottomless pits that could’ve reflected infinite worlds within them. 

“We should do this more often.” 

  
  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

  
  


They did _not,_ in fact, do that more often. 

Tommy didn’t come around any more after that incident, actually. He disappeared into the wind, his face just a muddy memory in Wilbur’s fractured mind.

Wilbur didn’t remember much of anything anymore actually. His days were filled with a great big nothing, no sensations or motivations or feelings to keep him going. He lay there on the cobblestone floor, only moving to retrieve his daily food tray or to piss in the jail’s dirty washroom. 

It was a truly dreadful existence. But it was one that he deserved. 

He _deserved_ to languish there, in the deep darkness of the Dream SMP’s prison. He deserved no better fate than the one he got. He tormented a young kid, and forced him to grow up too soon. He pushed away the traitor king trying to find his redemption. He brushed aside the only woman who had trusted him with her life and livelihood. He had played with all of their emotions and maneuvered them into battle with the land’s worst villains, just to _feel something._

Why did he always have to be so cold? 

“Wilbur.” 

He hadn’t heard the door open. Why was he hearing a voice? He would’ve heard the jingle-jangle of keys if someone had walked into his cell. He must be imagining things. 

“Wilbur!” 

No, the voice wouldn’t go away. It was persistent. And it didn’t have a European accent either. It was very clearly American in inflection and enunciation. 

“What? What could you possibly want from me, Dream?” 

His voice came out so gravely and hoarse that it sounded like he’d been gargling barbed wire. 

“I want you to stop seeing Tommy.” 

Wilbur had to laugh, it was just too funny. “I haven’t seen Tommy in _months._ Or has it been years? I really can’t tell, what with the _lack of sunlight_ in this dank, dark cell.” 

Dream cocked his head, kind of like a cat. “Then why has he been mentioning you so much lately? He won’t shut up about you, and it leads me to assume that he’s been seeing you.” 

Now _this, this_ was something.

“How interesting. How _very_ interesting. He has visited me approximately three times since I was placed under arrest. All three times, we had very _pleasant_ conversations. Chit chat, small talk, you know? I really don’t see why he’d be so obsessed with me.” There was not a hint of deception in his voice; it was so buttery smooth that even an angel itself would’ve been fooled. 

The devil, however? 

“Don’t be so daft with me, Wilbur. I saw the blood on his armor when he came back to the community house one night. At the time I didn’t know whose it was, but now…” Dream took a second to laugh. “I know. It was _yours.”_

Wilbur didn’t give him the satisfaction of a crestfallen expression. He merely sat up straighter from his sitting position on the floor. 

“He had a fucking _whale of a time_ beating me up, you know? He had this certain gleam in the eye, like he was enjoying it so very much. Like there was nowhere he’d rather be. I’m quite proud of that, myself. Only _I_ could’ve given him something quite like that malicious spirit. You may try, but even _you_ can’t measure up to my corrupting influence.” 

Wilbur couldn’t see Dream’s face behind the white smiling mask, but his ability to read body language told him that he was fuming. His shoulders were too tight, his hands too twitchy. The enchanted sword at his hip almost begged to be unsheathed. 

“You may have broken him down, but I will build him back up again. Greater and better than you could have hoped for. A ruler, not a mindless follower. You taught him how to bow to a force greater than him, I will teach him how to _break_ those greater than him. To see their faults and to never be truly weak again. That is my gift to him, my _“corrupting”_ influence if you will. I think it will be received better than yours, if I may make an estimate.” 

Wilbur smiled, the first time he had done so in however many months. 

“And what will he do when he realizes that yet another person he thought he could trust had been manipulating him? What will he do to _you? Will he break you down into teeny tiny pieces, will he see your weaknesses and exploit them? Will he recognize that he has been a pawn in your game? And will he rebell when that realization comes? Will he strike you down with the same force that you willingly endowed him with? Oh Dream! I wonder what he will do!”_

Nothing excited Wilbur more than seeing the usually so emotionless Dream get fired up. If there had been a face to witness in that moment, he would’ve loved to see the blood thirsty glint in the eye and the angry curl of the mouth. It was what Wilbur lived for now in his pit of darkness called a “prison.” It was what kept him _sane._

“He won’t do _anything!_ I will be there to stop it from happening! He is _not you,_ Wilbur! He’ll never turn into you. He’s too _good_ of a person. I’ve tried to instill that killer instinct, and it only ever comes out in the rarest and most dire of situations. You’re a fool if you ever think it’ll overtake him fully.” Dream crossed his arms in defiance, unwilling to see the truth. 

“I think you’re wrong. I think it’s already happened.” 

_SLAM._

And then Wilbur was alone with his thoughts again. Like the masked man in shining netherite had just been a figment of his withering mind. 

But the feelings remained. He had been given a taste of life again, just for a brief moment. But what a _glorious_ moment it had been. 

  
  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

  
  


Somewhere far away, in a house made of wood and brick, a president languished. He lay in his bed, unsure of what to do next. 

He had his nation. He had Dream. He had the full support of Eret and the other neutral factions surrounding him. So what was missing? 

Why did he still feel a hollowness inside? Why was this frostbitten feeling still eating away at his heart? 

What did he have to do to make it go away? 

  
  


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  
  


Tubbo had been saved. Saved by Tommy and Dream, that day of the Festival. He had been shuffled away to the Dream SMP’s enclosed walls, where he’d never be threatened or hurt again by the forces of evil. He’d been promised anything he could ask for: resources, equipment, farmland, _anything._ Reparations were being delivered, whether he liked it or not. And it really was quite nice, being doted on hand and foot like that. 

But still. There was an aching emptiness that he couldn’t escape. There was a hole in his heart. A Tommy shaped hole. 

Where was he? Why hadn’t he come to see him yet, in all the months that he’d been the ~~emperor~~ president of L’manburg? 

Why was Tommy so far away? 


End file.
